“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Turtle,
“only the least little drop in the world, Esther
dear. My heart, you know, my dear. Even so
short a walk as this tires me out.”

Mrs. Mesurier responded sympathetically; and then,
by way of making himself pleasant, Mr. Clegg suddenly
broke in with such an extraordinary amenity of old-world
gallantry that everybody’s hair stood on end.

Though not unnaturally taken aback at such an unwonted
conception of conversational intercourse, Mrs. Turtle
recovered herself with considerable humour, and, bridling,
with an old-world shake of her head, said,—­

“What would you take me for?”

“I should say you were seventy, if you’re
a day,” promptly answered the old man.

“Oh, dear, no!” replied Mrs. Turtle, with
some pique; “I was only sixty last January.”

“Well, you carry your age badly,” retorted
the old man, not to be beaten.

“What does he say, my dear?” said the
poor old lady turning to Mrs. Mesurier.

The silence here of the young people was positively
electric with suppressed laughter. Two of them
escaped to explode in another room, and Esther and
her mother were left to save the situation. But
on such occasions as these Mrs. Mesurier grew positively
great; and the manner in which she contrived to “turn
the conversation,” and smooth over the terrible
hiatus, was a feat that admits of no worthy description.

Presently the old man rose to go, as the clock neared
five. He had promised to be home before dark,
and Esther would think him “benighted”
if he should be late. He evidently had been to
America and back in that short afternoon.